


Stranger

by Szcay



Category: Penny Dreadful (TV)
Genre: Dark, Drug Addiction, Five Years Later, Homelessness, I'm Going to Hell, I'm so sorry, M/M, Malnourishment, Much Hurt - Little Comfort, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Not A Soul-Crushingly Sad Ending, Physical Abuse, Power Imbalance, Suicidal Thoughts, dear sibling don't read this, loss of self, oh god why did I write this?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-31
Updated: 2017-05-31
Packaged: 2018-11-06 22:37:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11045772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Szcay/pseuds/Szcay
Summary: It was so easy: letting yourself slip away until nothing mattered anymore and there was no one left. What was hard was fighting to keep yourself.Five years after the show, Dr Frankenstein has lost everything and something is terribly wrong with his old friend.(If you want a sweet story, this is not it.)





	Stranger

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't know I could write a fic like this. I'm not sure the knowledge makes me happy. This a few days work while taking a break from another project. I wasn't aiming for this level of darkness :(
> 
> Updated December 2017 for grammar.

He never could do it. The thought had been constantly there, every time he’d drawn morphine into the syringe, to fill it, end it, and pierce the veil between life and death for the last time. But he never could do it; something held him back from taking the final step. And now he didn’t even own a syringe to draw morphine into.

He’d never found a different position after Vanessa’s death, when Sir Malcolm no longer needed his services and money had dried up. He could have gotten work, could have paid his rent, but all he wanted was the morphine, and there was always something that was worth less than it, and always someone to take it off him. By the time he was evicted from his flat it was almost empty. He hadn’t yet lost contact with Sir Malcolm and Ethan, but he never could bring himself to tell them that he’d lost his home. He’d never spoken to Henry again after Lily had left.

For a little while he rented a room, borrowed money from Sir Malcolm and sold what little remained to him. How much was a watch worth, when pain seared through his muscles and darkness threatened to engulf his mind. And how much was a roof over his head worth, when compared to the blissful abyss? There was no problem to live on the streets when one owned almost nothing but the clothes one wore and a small wooden box of narcotics. But the problem was that with nowhere to live there was nowhere to wash, shave and make oneself appear presentable. And soon enough shame kept him from visiting his friends. That meant no more borrowed money.

He started begging. He sold his coat, and used one he found thrown away in the trash. He sold his tourniquet, it yielded a few coins, and a piece of string worked just as well. He sold the case where he kept his syringe and bottle and carried them wrapped in a rag in his coat pocket. It didn’t offer enough protection when a drunkard kicked at the beggar in his way.

It was autumn, late evening. He sat at a street corner outside a club, begging. He was saving up. He would buy a new syringe so he could go back to the morphine. The problem was that the cost of a syringe was higher than that of a vial of laudanum, and the withdrawal was prickling behind his eyes, not caring in which form the opiates came. But he could withstand it. He didn’t like the laudanum, as an oral solution it was terrible on his stomach and he never found in it the same peace as in the needle. Soon he wouldn’t need it. He was saving up and soon he’d have enough. His syringe had broken in spring.

The ache and the shivering was becoming unbearable. He counted his coins, by touch in his pocket so no one could see. He had enough for some laudanum with a little to spare. He was still saving up. A little for now and a little for later. And he needed a little for now.

He rose, unsteadily, wiping his nose with his sleeve. His legs wouldn’t quite obey, but his destination was not far.

Three steps and then his knee folded under him; he fell to the side, bumping into someone before falling to the ground. He saw a glimpse of polished shoes, fine clothes and then the movement of a walking stick, raised to strike. He huddled, shielding his head with his arms. It wouldn’t matter if he was struck, he’d soon have the laudanum to chase the pain away.

The blow never fell.

He heard, more than saw, the click of the stick’s tip against the ground as it was lowered. Perhaps he’d made a pathetic enough figure for mercy. Perhaps pathetic enough for a few coins. He dared to look up.

Expensive clothes and a cruel expression obfuscated, for a moment, Henry Jekyll’s face. But it was him undeniably.

In the wake of recognition came fear, shame and the urge to hide away and avoid being recognised in turn. But it was too late.

“Victor.” Henry’s voice was devoid of emotion, as if there was no surprise and no recognition in this meeting.

He couldn’t answer, Henry stood tall and elegant where he crouched filthy and unshaven. There were no words, even if he could remember any besides a plea for alms.

“Stand.”

The cold aristocrat’s voice was hard to disobey, and he once more struggled to his unsteady feet. There was not much more dignity in standing before Henry. He bowed his neck, looking at him through his dirty fringe. Henry didn’t seem to mind, just fixed him with an impassive, cold look.

It wasn’t long, surely, that the look lasted, but it felt like seasons changed and autumn turned into cold winter. He shivered, his body reminding him of what it needed. It begged him to go, perhaps after asking his old friend for a bit of money, but what still remained of the man he had been could not stomach the shame of asking. Could not stomach the shame of Henry seeing him like this.

He turned, intent on resuming his trek, but a gloved hand took his arm. He stopped, not having the energy to pull loose.

Its owner took a step closer. “Oh, how far you’ve fallen.” There was still no inflection in his voice, not even disgust despite his proximity. “Come.”

The hand did not release him, and there was no choice other than to follow.

Behind them, an automobile stood waiting. He didn’t think he’d ridden in one before. The seat was soft and dry and when Henry closed the door and blocked out the wind he felt almost warm. He didn’t quite dare to lean against the door on his side, but he sat as close to it as he dared; he didn’t want his filthy rags to touch Henry’s elegant coat. He wished he still had his shoes.

“Victor,” Henry said again, but didn’t continue. His arm, wrapped in expensive fabric, slipped around Victor’s shoulders and pulled him close, and Victor didn’t have it in him to resist. It seemed that even through the thick garment he could feel the heat of the other man. Of the man; Victor was not a man, not anymore. The car started moving.

It was strange, the proximity. No one had touched him for so long, for as long as he could remember, aside for in violence. Henry was warm against his side, his arm firm behind his neck, his hand strong where it gripped his shoulder. The fabric of his coat seemed soft, it had a trim of black fur, and if it hadn’t been for his scraggly beard he might have been able to feel it against his cheek.

The withdrawal still made his skin feel like it was loose and trying to crawl away from him and he was sure Henry could feel him shaking, but the warmth and the movement of the car made it a little easier to bear. Victor felt his eyes start to close. It was hard to sleep when you were cold.

The engine grew quiet and he jolted awake. Henry was pulling away, and he realised that he didn’t know where he was. It occurred to him he didn’t really know Henry any longer and maybe that wasn’t good, but then he was grabbed by the wrist and it was so much easier to follow than to resist.

The house before them was large and lavish, but it was hard to notice such things with the withdrawal burning him and the gnawing concern that maybe this was a mistake making his stomach roll. But Henry’s grip around his wrist was strong, and it took all his effort to keep upright as he followed him.

Inside the doors there was a brief respite from locomotion as Henry spoke to another man. The words escaped him, there when he heard them but slipping away before they could make sense. He wished he could sit down, but the carpet under his feet seemed expensive and he didn’t think he should dirty it. Henry moved again, the pull on his arm increasing.

The stair proved too much, and he sunk down after only a few steps. Henry pulled him up and steadied him with his shoulder under his arm. Victor felt like he should protest that he was filthy and ruining Henry’s fine clothes, but his tongue felt thick in his mouth. The stairs ended, but his energy was drained. He leaned heavily on Henry, unable to do anything else. His head ached. Henry pulled him forward.

There was a door, or perhaps there were several doors, and then a white room. The electrical lights reflected off every surface and Victor’s eyes squeezed shut, unable to bear it.

Henry released him and he almost fell, but there was a chair beneath him. He could feel Henry’s hands flutter at his throat, over his chest, at his waist, but not until he felt air on his bare skin did he understand that he was being undressed. He should protest, but now he was naked and standing before Henry. He still couldn’t open his eyes.

He felt something cold against his leg. It was coaxed to lift, to step over and inside. He was in a bathtub, half-filled with warm water. A warm, soft cloth moved over the skin of his arm. It was replaced by fingers, lingering. He wanted to open his eyes, but they watered from the brightness and wouldn’t stay open.

“Don’t worry,” Henry’s inflectionless voice came.

He forced his eyes open.

Henry knelt beside the tub, in only his shirt now. When Victor met his gaze he smiled, a small, crooked expression that Victor did not recall. He lifted his hand. “Recognise this?”

It was a bottle of morphine, and everything else faded into the background. Victor reached for it.

Henry slapped his hand away, the sound sharp in the tiled bathroom. “I’ll do it,” he said flatly. Victor’s hand stung. “I think it’s necessary in your state.”

His hands were out of sight, and Victor tried to rise from the water, only to find himself too weak. The warmth had sapped all his strength. When Henry’s hands came into view again they held the syringe, and Victor found the tourniquet already round his arm, waiting to be tightened.

The prick of the needle and the rush of morphine felt like the touch of a lover after so long without. Victor almost sobbed, and was sure he felt tears falling down his cheeks, cutting paths through the grime. The crawling skin and the pain and the aching stopped. It felt like a band around his chest had fallen away. He let his head fall back against the rim, not noticing its sharp impact. His eyes slid shut. He could rest now. He was warm, the morphine pulled at him and he could rest. Numbly he felt Henry’s hands ghosting over his arm, removing the tourniquet.

Wetness over his chest, against his face. The sound of water. He slept.

 

He was shaken awake with the morphine still murmuring in his veins. He saw water swirling down the drain, clear and transparent. He could see his own legs, thin, pale and scarred, but clean. He closed his eyes.

A hand was on his arm and pulling on him to stand up. His legs wouldn’t carry him, but he was caught against a firm chest. He sat on a chair. A towel, thick and soft rubbed him dry. His arms were threaded into the sleeves of a robe, its fabric so thin and smooth it must be silk. He was moving and allowed to lay down, finally.

He opened his eyes. Henry sat down on the bed next to him. It was so soft and warm and he didn’t know why Henry did this for him. He wanted to ask him, he almost did, but his throat seized in a cough, voice gone from disuse or lack of care. Henry smiled.

“You’ve fallen, old man.” His fingers traced over Victor’s sternum, through the gap of the robe. “I’m not surprised, not truly. You never have been able to care for yourself, and it was clear from the last time we me that you no longer had control over your own life.” His hand came up to cup Victor’s face. “Morphine controls you, and I control the morphine.”

Victor shivered, despite the narcotic still in his veins. That, more than anything, did not sound like Henry. His eyes were cold, his voice detached, his thumb rubbed at the corner of Victor’s mouth.

Henry leaned closer. “I control you.”

Victor opened his mouth to speak, but Henry pushed his thumb inside, pressing down against his tongue, rubbing against it. Victor froze. It tasted clean. He realised that his own mouth tasted clean, and wondered just how deeply unconscious he’d fallen, for Henry to clean his teeth without his memory. His thoughts still felt hazy.

“That’s good,” his host murmured. “Open your mouth; let me look at your teeth.”

Victor didn’t want to obey, but with the way that Henry held him he’d have to bite him to avoid it. And he was starting to realise that something was very wrong with Henry.

“I’m surprised they aren’t in worse condition. I suspect the lack of food will have helped preserve them.” His thumb slipped out of Victor’s mouth and pressed, wet with spit, against his cheek, as if to emphasise its gauntness. Pressed against bare skin, free from the ragged beard.

The desire to speak had left him. What could he say? But he felt more awake now and scooted a bit further up the bed, away from Henry’s touch. Henry smiled and raised his gaze from Victor’s mouth to his eyes. He moved, as if to follow, when a knock sounded on the door.

A servant entered with a tray smelling of food. Victor’s stomach growled, but his mind couldn’t be further from the thought of eating. The servant looked at nothing as he put the tray down on a dresser. Henry ignored him, just sat, patiently frozen until the man closed the door behind him.

“Did I startle you, Victor?” Henry’s expression tried to be kind. His voice was toneless, his gaze intent, focused on Victor. He waited, as if for an answer but Victor couldn’t speak.

Henry smiled then, that same crooked smile, and rose to retrieve the tray. Victor didn’t look at it, he lowered his gaze to his hands, though the sight of them sickened him. They were not as they had been, despite their cleanness; two fingers of one hand had been broken and no longer straightened fully, the tendons stood out in relief and the path of every vein was marred by scars, made more severe by infections. They’d had time to heal since he’d lost his syringe.

A spoon entered his vision. Victor turned his head away.

“Eat, Victor.”

He turned his head another degree. His stomach rolled with nausea.

“You’ll feel better.”

He kept his mouth closed.

The spoon withdrew. “Perhaps you want something else?”

Victor turned around despite himself. In Henry’s hand was the bottle, tourniquet and syringe. It was impossible to look away, the residual warmth in his veins suddenly feeling inadequate.

“If I give you an injection, will you eat?”

Victor nodded, his eyes fixed.

“Answer me.” Henry’s voice stayed toneless.

“Yes.” Victor’s voice came out a hoarse whisper, disuse making it lodge in his throat.

Henry seemed satisfied, smiling before placing the equipment _down_. “You will get it after your dinner.”

Victor didn’t want to eat, but the thought of the morphine was more than he could resist.

He let Henry feed him a thick soup smelling of potatoes and meat. When he could stomach no more and turned his head away Henry accepted it. Henry ate his own meal, taking his time, eyes fixed on Victor who was trying not to let his impatience show. The whispers of withdrawal had not yet started up, but before he knew what it was like to live without his drug, before the money ran out, he’d taken his next injection as soon as he started to surface from his last; no withdrawal.

He didn’t know what Henry planned. Didn’t know what he wanted. He needed to take advantage of the opportunity to experience that feeling again. By the time Henry placed his spoon down, Victor’s hands had begun to tremble. When he took away the tray to pick up the syringe again it was all Victor could do not to reach for it.

Henry slid his hands up his arm, pushing the loose sleeve of the robe upwards. Victor shivered, from the contact or the anticipation he didn’t know. He didn’t know whether Henry watched his face, didn’t know what expression he wore; his eyes couldn’t leave Henry’s hands as they fastened the tourniquet, drew morphine into the syringe and traced along Victor’s barely-healed veins.

Henry’s hands were sure in a way his own hadn’t been for years when they inserted the needle. Victor watched him slowly depress the plunger and felt the morphine enter him as it left the syringe. He leaned his head back against the headboard and closed his eyes.

He felt Henry’s hands moving him, helping him to lay down underneath the covers. He drifted, and then felt the bed move again and Henry laying down next to him.

He opened his eyes.

There was a peculiar expression on Henry’s face, something around his eyes and mouth that Victor could only describe as _hunger_. But his brows were slightly furrowed in an expression of sadness.

“What happened to you, Henry?” The words left his mouth before he knew them.

Henry blinked slowly, as if surprised, and the sad expression chased the hunger from his face. “I lost.” His voice was the voice that Victor knew, filled with regret. “Don’t fight it Victor. You can’t win. I’m so sorry.”

His face contorted briefly into fury, before settling into blankness. Victor stared, not able to process what he’d seen.

“You will address me as ‘Lord Hyde’ or ‘my lord’,” Henry said tonelessly with narrowed eyes.

Victor could only nod, the sense of wrongness being slowly overtaken by creeping fear. Henry’s hand shot out, quick as a snake, and Victor flinched, expecting violence, but Henry trailed his fingers down his face, again rubbing his thumb over Victor’s lips.

“Be good, Victor,” he whispered.

Victor wanted to pull away, but his body felt so heavy.

Henry’s hand trailed lower, to encircle his throat. “I want to keep you.”

He squeezed, and Victor felt a moment’s panic, but it didn’t cut off his breathing.

Henry wore a dreamy expression that clashed with his toneless voice. “Be good and I’ll be good to you.”

He moved closer, pressing his lips hard against Victor’s and Victor froze. He felt Henry’s tongue, wet and probing against his lips and pressed them shut. Henry increased the pressure on his throat, cutting off his airways, making his head buzz. Victor refused him for a moment longer, before his body’s futile drive to breathe overtook his will and his mouth opened in a gasp. Henry’s tongue shot in and again Victor was left with the choice to allow the invasion or bite him. He feared what Henry might do.

The kiss, if it could be called that, was dominating, Henry’s tongue plunging into his mouth, hard and uncaring. The grip around Victor’s throat eased and he drew desperate breaths though his nose. It seemed to last a long time, a long time of Henry plundering his mouth while he lay waiting for it to be over. His mind had started drifting again, drawn away by the morphine, when Henry pulled back.

“Good.” He wore a faint smile on his lips. They were glossy with saliva.

Victor looked away, anxiety trying to break through the mist of morphine.

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted that.” The heated words were belied by the flatness of Henry’s voice.

His hand shifted from Victor’s throat, slid up into his hair and stroked it. Victor shivered. Henry moved nearer, laying down and pulling Victor closer. He settled his face against Victor’s neck, seemingly laying down for sleep. Victor kept his eyes open, fixed on the ceiling.

It was clear to him now why Henry had picked him up from the street. And it didn’t seem as if Victor had much of a choice in whether to oblige him if he stayed. But his belly was full of warm food and he was in a soft bed with Henry radiating heat next to him. He was clean. And above all, his skin wasn’t trying to crawl away from him; the insects that burrowed in his head and his joints and muscles had gone quiet. The man he had been would have been ashamed to admit it, but Victor no longer was: for the morphine he would bear whatever Henry wished.

He closed his eyes. He could remember another time, when they were young and living in a one-room flat which never got warm in winters. They’d used to share a bed then, pressed close together for warmth. He couldn’t remember Henry being this warm then, but perhaps Victor’s body was just shutting down. With his eyes closed and the morphine numbing the edges of his mind he could almost imagine himself back there.

 

He woke disoriented, half in a panic, unsure where he was. There was a weight over his chest and he pushed at it, trying to get away. Then he took in his surroundings and remembered.

He was in Henry’s bed with Henry’s arm around him, tightening slowly. Victor let himself be pulled in until his back was flush against Henry’s chest. He hoped he hadn’t woken him; he had a feeling that his existence here depended on Henry’s mood.

He shivered. His eyes ached from the brightness in the room and the insects were starting to crawl under his skin again. But his mind felt clearer than it had in forever. Nutrition and rest had helped to clear some of the fog that had become his existence and his thoughts no longer felt like they were mired in mud.

Henry had stilled, perhaps asleep again, and Victor tried to relax in his arms. There was something wrong with Henry. Something that could not be explained with his sudden wealth or the time that had passed, but something deeper. The look in his eyes, the strange dispassionate voice, his _actions_ ; that was not the Henry he knew. Maybe Victor could help him. The thought would have made him laugh, were it not so sad; how could he help Henry when he could barely keep himself alive?

He felt Henry stir, the tip of his nose pressing against Victor’s neck through his unkempt hair. His palm flat against the centre of Victor’s bare chest; the robe had come undone and twisted around his waist. Henry pressed himself impossibly closer, pushing his hips up against Victor’s backside, letting him feel the firm heat of his erection clearly though his pyjamas. Victor swallowed. He was surprised to find that even in the light of day, after he’d slept and sobered up, he still felt that this would be a fair trade for the morphine. As long as he didn’t have to do it sober.

He felt Henry draw a deep breath, the air cool against his neck. “I will cut your hair today.”

Victor imagined that Henry was quite comfortable, but it didn’t show in his voice at all. Victor swallowed. The hand that wasn’t now tracing patterns in the hair on his chest went to his neck, brushing away the hair there, baring it for Henry. He felt Henry’s lips press against the back of his neck, over the spine. Softly kissing first, then wetly sucking on that same spot, while all the while his hips rocked against Victor. All Victor could think was to not have to do this without the morphine, but he didn’t dare to move.

Henry bit down, and Victor jerked, held still by the iron arm around his chest. He made a small sound, the sound of an injured animal, and Henry lifted his head.

“Be good, Victor,” he whispered, kissing the side of Victor’s neck, pulling on his hair to kiss under his jaw. The image of his teeth around his trachea made Victor limp with fear. Then Henry drew away, let Victor go and got out of the bed.

Victor lay still, not daring to move yet: the small animal in its den when a predator was near. The bite was throbbing and he was shivering, breathing fast. He heard Henry move around the room.

“Look at me, Victor.”

Slowly Victor moved, rolling over on his back and turning his head.

Henry wore a robe over his nightclothes, dark and thick. His eyes seemed to burn as they fixed on Victor. “Stand up.”

Victor struggled to obey. There was more strength in his arms then there had been, but he still fought to free himself from the covers of the bed. His flimsy robe had fallen open and he tried to close it, preserving his modesty in front of the man who had undressed him, washed him and done god knew what else to him. His legs wobbled when he put weight on them and he sank down on the mattress.

Henry tsked, and pulled him up by the arm. “Good,” he said, like a master to a dog and ran his palm over Victor’s cheek.

Victor kept his gaze focused at the base of Henry’s throat; he couldn’t meet his eyes but didn’t dare to look away. He thought he could feel blood seep into the back of his robe from the bite on his neck.

Henry led him to the bathroom and made him sit on a chair while he cut his hair with a sharp scissor. Victor stayed pliant the whole time, fearing the blades. Henry didn’t tend to the wound on the nape of his neck, merely examined it with the press of his thumb until Victor hissed from discomfort. Perhaps it wasn’t bleeding. Perhaps Henry didn’t care. He felt small tufts of hair fall down the back of his neck to itch against his skin. It was getting harder to sit still, the restlessness that followed in the morphine’s wake increasing.

Henry finished, rubbing his fingers though Victor’s hair. “You almost look like your old self.”

Victor didn’t see his expression, but he doubted it was sincere. He was a shadow of his old self, years of too little food and hard living carved into his skin. Henry didn’t offer him a mirror and Victor was grateful. He was made to stand and Henry took away his robe and used his hands to brush away the stray hair from his body. Victor allowed it.

He wasn’t given anything else to wear, just a moment to use the toilet while Henry turned his back and then he was led naked back into the bedroom and made to sit on the bed again. Henry sat next to him, running his fingers through his hair. Victor looked up. At a quick glance the expression on his face could have been called fondness, but from his recent actions Victor named it ‘possession’. He swallowed, steeling himself.

“What do you want with me?” His voice was as coarse and raspy as it had ever been.

Henry didn’t stop petting him, just smiled. “I want to own you.” Victor imagined his voice would have been affectionate, had it been capable of conferring emotion. “You can’t care for yourself; you would have been dead within weeks if I hadn’t found you. You’re mine now. I’ll take care of you.” His expression was serene, except for the crooked smile.

Victor took a chance. “Henry, what happened?”

Henry’s brow wrinkled and his hand stilled in Victor’s hair. His eyes screwed shut as if he was in pain.

“What’s wrong?” Victor whispered. “Let me help you.”

A sound that could have been a laugh escaped Henry. “You can’t.” His head was bowed and his hair falling in his face. His voice was filled with pain. “I am beyond help.”

Victor reached out and took his hand. Henry squeezed it, hard, but as if drawing strength from it rather than as if seeking to hurt and control.

“Tell me.”

Henry lifted his head. His eyes were glossy and wet. “I took the serum, Victor.” A tear rolled down his cheek. “It didn’t work. Didn’t work correctly. There is this other me, this other man. He took over. Just for moments at first, but then more and more. I can’t control him, Victor.” He broke off in a sob. “I’m almost gone.”

The implications shook Victor. He reached out and lay his other hand on Henry’s shoulder, squeezing it. “Tell me how to help you, Henry.”

“You can’t.” Henry shook his head. “I tried. Tried so long to reverse it. It never worked and then time ran out.”

“There has to be someth-”

Victor’s desperate plea was cut off by a knock on the door. He turned his head, startled, and when he turned back Henry’s face was contorted in fury. Victor opened his mouth, but Henry’s fist hit his cheek before he could get a sound out and he fell on his side on the bed.

Ears ringing and face burning, he lay still and watched as the door opened and a servant entered with another tray, seemingly unbothered by the naked man on his master’s bed. Henry spoke to him and Victor recognised in the servant’s eyes what he hadn’t the night before: fear. He felt it crawling up his own throat as the door closed and Henry turned to him.

“You will stop that, Victor.” His eyes were dark with barely held back anger, clashing violently with his dispassionate voice. “This is the way it is and you can’t change it. The serum worked. I am in control now; I control my emotions.”

He kneeled on the bed, creeping towards Victor. It took an effort of will not to move away from him.

“If you knew what he thought of you,” he whispered. “Evil, sinful things.” He hovered over Victor now, trapping him beneath him. “He let his desires control him.” His hand reached out and trailed from Victor’s neck, over his chest, down to his waist. “I don’t.”

“Hen-”

Henry slapped him. “Show respect!” he roared and Victor cowered, terrified now.

“Lord Hyde!” he yelped, ashamed to yield to this stranger in Henry’s skin, but self-preservation took over.

Henry’s mouth spread in a grin. “Think very carefully on what you say to me, Victor.”

And Victor would. Even as he lay there, gasping in terror of what may come, with both cheeks stinging from Henry’s blows, he realised why the stranger didn’t want him to speak Henry’s name. It gave Henry strength. Maybe Victor’s presence did the same. Henry’s hand was moving over Victor’s hip, rubbing circles into the skin. Victor felt nausea begin to twist his stomach. He didn’t want that.

Henry smiled as if reading his mind and deciding to pity him. “You’re like a skeleton, Victor. Best we get some food into you.”

When he straightened and his hand left Victor’s skin it felt like emerging from under the shadow of a beast. Victor drew a deep breath and sat up, drawing his legs to his chest and wrapping his arms around them.

The food smelled divine when the cover was removed from the tray, but even as his stomach growled and his mouth watered Victor’s mind rebelled. He would eat and build his strength, but he would not yield to the stranger any more than necessary. He’d try to get through to Henry. With that in mind he crawled slowly towards the tray and the man currently putting food on a plate.

“Sit,” Henry said without looking at him.

Victor obeyed.

Henry didn’t allow him to eat on his own. Each mouthful of food was held out on a fork for him to take from his hand. It was thick sausages, soft, fluffy eggs and warm tea. Victor’s mouth watered with every bite. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a meal that someone else hadn’t discarded. He could have emptied the tray by himself but Henry placed the fork down.

“That’s enough for now, I think,” he murmured. “Good, Victor.”

“Thank you,” Victor said, eliciting a look of pleased surprise. He made his move. “Do you remember the breakfasts we shared when we lived together, you and I?” He thought Henry’s expression shifted. “Do you remember, Henry?”

Henry’s hands shot out and clamped around his neck, closing his airways. “I remember.”

Pressed against the mattress, Victor scrabbled against Henry’s grip, but he was no match.

“I remember watching you.” His voice was an emotionless hiss in Victor’s ear. “There’s always been something fragile about you. I wonder if that wasn’t what attracted me in the first place.”

Victor’s vision was starting to turn black around the edges.

“I want to break you.” Henry’s mouth crashed onto his, hard enough that Victor tasted blood. The grip softened. Victor bit down.

The stranger that had taken over Henry roared and drew away. Victor lay there, heart thudding, trying to catch his breath.

Before he could, Henry was on him again. “That’s not very clever, Victor.” His eyes were burning. His hand gripped Victor’s jaw, forcing his mouth open as he kissed him again.

Unable to resist, Victor fled into passivity, letting the stranger thrust his tongue deep enough into his mouth to make him want to vomit. Henry’s free hand crept downwards to take Victor’s cock in a hard grip.

That was too much. Victor tried to pull free, pushing and clawing at Henry, who seemed as immovable as a rock. Henry’s hand was rubbing and pulling on Victor’s soft member, the sensation making him sob in degradation. His knees were forced apart, the press of Henry’s legs holding them open. The hand violating him moved farther down and Victor screamed into Henry’s mouth as he felt a finger press against his anus.

Henry drew away far enough to look at him, a manic gleam in his eye. “Oh, yes, Victor. This will happen.” The hunger became tempered, softened with a twisted cousin of devotion. “And you will ask for it.”

He rose, turning away and Victor drew himself into a ball, too shaken to even try to get away. His mind skittered feverishly over new plans to try to draw Henry out, to keep this stranger away, one more flimsy than the other.

Henry turned around. Victor’s eyes fastened immediately on the objects he held and his breath caught.

“It was inconsiderate of me,” the stranger said. “Not to think of this. I know you need it.”

Victor did. The sight of the morphine made him break out in a sweat, the thought of it chasing fear and shame from his mind. He _would_ let the stranger do what he wanted, as long as he could have it. He unfurled slightly, unfolding one arm in tacit permission, feeling like a traitor.

“Oh no, Victor,” the stranger smiled. “It won’t be that easy. You have to _ask_ for it.”

Victor shivered. Ask for the morphine, and with it, his violation. He thought of Henry, trapped behind this stranger’s eyes, looking at Victor in his weakness. Oh, how he wished he had the strength to resist.

“May I have it?” he whispered weakly. Then, gripped by terror of having to suffer his debasement sober, added. “Please, my lord.”

Henry’s face looked like it might split in two, so broad was his grin, bloodthirsty like a tiger’s. He stalked forward on hands and knees and Victor held still, shaking from terror and need. Henry’s hands pulled the strap tight around his arm with a sharp jerk, making Victor’s arm prickle with trapped blood within seconds. He drew the morphine into the syringe slowly, predatory eyes on Victor the whole time. He grabbed Victor harshly by the wrist and pushed the needle into the vein almost without looking. He emptied the syringe and threw it behind him and Victor winced when he heard it bounce against the carpet. The tourniquet was pulled loose in one motion, making the trapped blood rush back into circulation, carrying the drug like a flood to Victor’s brain.

The world grew soft and Victor’s heart slowed from its frantic pace. His muscles relaxed and warmth spread though him. His eyes slid shut, body and mind numbing.

He felt Henry’s hands unfold him from his curled up position, roll him on his back, felt his mouth descend on Victor’s again. It didn’t bother him, not with the thick blanket of morphine separating him from emotions and sensations both. He was only distantly aware of Henry’s hands roaming over his skin. He didn’t respond, just lay passive, aware but unaware and far away in his thoughts. It didn’t seem to discourage the stranger, judging by the motions of his tongue, his hand that had strayed again to between Victor’s legs. Henry’s mouth left his, tracing down his neck and chest, sucking and maybe biting. Victor gasped softly as he felt a finger breach him. There was no pain, not with the morphine. No pain as one finger became two. No pain when they were replaced by Henry’s cock, pushing deep inside him at a punishing pace.

Underneath the heavy blanket Victor’s mind screamed. The stranger finished, Victor felt him pulling out and then the warm wetness of his seed as it splattered over Victor’s chest. Satisfied, he lay down next to Victor and pulled him close to again rest his back against his chest. It was respite, allowing Victor to drift away.

Respite was short-lived; soon he felt his shoulder being shaken. He turned his face down against the bed, trying to distance himself from his body for a moment longer.

“Victor!” The sharp whisper was saturated with urgency and fear.

Victor blinked his eyes open and turned his head to look at Henry.

“You have to get up.” Henry watched him with desperate eyes, whispering as if that would let them avoid the stranger’s notice. Perhaps it would, who could tell? “You have to get away.”

“No.” Victor’s tongue felt clumsy in his mouth and the word came out slow and slurred.

“Don’t be stupid!” Henry hissed.

“Fight, Henry,” Victor countered. “You can fight him. You are doing it right now, are you not?” He turned a little bit more, aware that Henry’s arms were still loosely wrapped around him. “I will help you.” The words came a little easier now.

“I can’t, you have to run.”

“I won’t, you have to.”

Henry’s face fell.

Victor pressed. “Tell me how it started. Tell me what gave him such power.”

Henry turned his gaze away, defeat on his face. “There was no point to it anymore. Not any of it.” His voice was almost as toneless as the stranger’s but for the thread of pain underlying it. “I thought: ‘Why not test it on myself? It can’t get worse.’” He sighed, a sound perilously close to a sob. “When it happened the first time I didn’t know it. But slowly I started to remember visiting strange places, doing strange things, and… violence.” He broke off. “Hate and violent acts. He seems calm, but under the surface- You’ve seen it.”

Victor shivered. “What lets you return?” he whispered, shaken by Henry’s fear.

“I don’t know. When you spoke to me: that was the first time in a long time I’ve been in control.” He looked haunted. “I have tried, Victor.”

Victor bent his head to catch Henry’s eye. “We will try together.”

Henry wore the expression of a man who’d given up but still wished for hope beyond hope in the dark.

“You are here now,” Victor said softly.

“And what a place this is.” Henry’s voice was bitter, regret twisting his features. “I’m so sorry, Victor. I would have stopped him if I could.”

“I know.”

Henry’s eyes closed and a shudder ran through him. Victor’s heart sped up.

“He’s coming back.” Henry’s arms tightened around Victor.

“Fight him, Henry.”

“I’m trying.” Sweat had broken out on his brow, and his face was twisted in pain.

“Henry!” Victor pleaded, desperate.

Henry’s eyes opened and his hands reached for Victor’s throat.

“Leave it alone, Victor,” he said, face twisting in anger as he squeezed, moving to straddle Victor’s hips. “He’s too weak. Perhaps if you’d been there from the beginning you could have made a difference, but you weren’t. You are making things harder on yourself than you have to.”

Victor tried to pry his hands from his neck, as little good as it did. The stranger’s toneless words hammered into his mind.

“He wanted it. He has wanted to fuck you for years.”

Victor shook his head, he was lying, Victor knew he was.

“Oh, yes. And it was glorious, the way you took it.” He relaxed his grip on Victor’s throat, letting him suck in a desperate breath.

“Henry,” he rasped.

The stranger struck him. “He’s dead,” he spat. “He’s gone, and you force me to get rid of you too.” He flipped Victor on his stomach and caught him around the waist when Victor tried to scrabble away.

“Henry, listen-”

Henry’s hand pressed his face against the bed, hard. He heard a tearing sound and then a wad of fabric was shoved into his mouth.

“Quiet,” the stranger hissed. “Don’t ruin this. It’s the least you can do before I kill you.” His free hand hooked around Victor’s waist and pulled his hips up.

Realising what he intended, Victor tried to squirm away but Henry’s hand pressed painfully down against his bruised face and his arm tightened around his waist. There was no preparation this time and not enough morphine to mask the pain when the stranger tried and failed to penetrate him, thwarted by Victors squirming. He heard his attacker growl as he lined himself up again.

The best Victor could hope for was to frustrate him enough that he would give him the syringe again. His arms and legs were trembling with exhaustion and his mind was glazing over with terrified denial.

“Stop. Moving,” the stranger growled, making a new attempt at breaching him.

Victor twisted terrified in his grip. “Henry, please don’t do this.” The gag muffled his voice and garbled his words, but he didn’t care if Henry heard him or not anymore. “Please, don’t let him do this.” He felt Henry’s teeth sink into his shoulder and screamed wordlessly.

Henry’s body stilled behind him. Victor trembled, not knowing whose arm was around him.

“Victor…”

The broken voice told him all he needed and he sobbed in relief. Henry released him and he fell to his side, curling up and tearing the rag from his mouth. Henry’s hand touched his shoulder and he jerked away.

“Give me a moment,” he whispered.

“He will come back,” Henry said, sounding tired and hurt.

Victor forced his eyes open. Henry’s face swam before him. He was kneeling just a foot away.

“Stop him.”

Henry looked crestfallen. There was blood on his lips. “I don’t know how.”

Victor grabbed his hand. “You do. You are here.”

He pulled himself up to look Henry in the eye. They knelt, facing each other in a grim tableau, naked and covered in blood and ejaculate.

“Stay here, Henry.” He felt hysteria seep into his voice as he thought of the alternative. “Stay with me.”

His hands tightened around Henry’s shaking ones. He saw Henry’s brow crease, like it had before the other one’s return, and reached out in desperation and wrapped his arms around him as if he could hold him together. Henry shuddered and Victor held his breath. He should have asked Henry for the morphine while he had the chance. It would have made what was coming bearable. Henry’s arms came up to rest around Victor and he whimpered, expecting violence to erupt at any moment.

It didn’t. The muscles of Henry’s shoulder relaxed under his chin. His arms were not constricting. His breathing was evening out.

“Henry?” Victor whispered, though he didn’t want to break the stillness in case it was not him.

“Yes,” Henry whispered back and Victor drew a deep breath, the air leaving him in a puff. “It’s me.” There was a note of wonder in his voice. “I’m holding him back, Victor.”

Victor sagged against him. “I knew you could.” He’d known no such thing. He’d hoped for it, chanced on it and despaired over it. “How long do we have?” There wasn’t really a chance of escape, Victor would not be able to keep Henry tied up with the servants about. He wouldn’t be able to create a cure alone, even if he’d been in full health instead of barely functioning. There was really only one way out, for both of them: the final step.

“Long,” Henry whispered against his hair, cutting off Victor’s dark musings. “I’m holding him back. He can’t break free.” Something halfway between a laugh and a sob erupted from Henry’s throat. “I’m winning.”

Victor could barely believe it. Shaking with exhaustion he drew back, keeping his arms around Henry’s shoulders as he looked into his face. Tears were rolling down Henry’s cheeks and his face was drawn in exhaustion but he was beaming towards Victor.

Victor felt a smile take over his own face and hope bloom in his chest for the first time in forever. They were broken, both of them, but together they stood a chance.

He whispered: “If you keep him away, I’ll help you destroy him.”


End file.
